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OLD FELLAS
It was Tuesday, 11:45 a.m. Bert, the first to arrive, as usual. His bus arrived before those of his two 'amigos'. Two were widowers, the third had never married. They met twice a week at the same time and place, subject to illnesses or too inclement weather, for ten years. Together they would lunch at their local Returned Servicemen's Club in Chatswood.
Weather conditions dictated their meeting spot. Today was a clear blue sky, warm Sydney winter day. So, they would meet at the back-to-back wide wooden seats outside the bank in the open pedestrian plaza surrounded by the shopping mall. On cold or wet days, or days of excess heat, they met at the long bench inside the nearby air conditioned shopping mall.
Both benches were empty on Bert’s arrival. They generally were at this time. Lunchtime had not started.
He sat on the bench facing the sun. Eyes closed, he raised his face skyward and soaked up the warmth. He thought of a lizard sunbathing on a rock to warm his body. Considering Bert’s slight stature it should not take long. His only revolt against his age was to keep his small well trimmed moustache regularly dyed black, even if it contrasted with his thinned grey hair. In his youth he would have been considered small enough to be a jockey. But at least before the army service he had a full head of hair.
"Albèrt." He heard his name pronounced in the French style. He knew who it was without opening his eyes. Eyes still closed, he extended his hand. It was taken and shaken. Both men still had good solid grips despite their 80 plus years.
"Hugh," he replied, "marvellous day to be alive."
"At our age any day’s a good day to be alive."
Hugh seated himself heavily as Bert moved each shoulder in a circle before opening his eyes.
"Arthritis still playing up?" asked Hugh.
"Yeah, the sun does wonders for it. Doesn't help the fingers much though."
"I've started to get a touch of it in winter, not just in the hands mind you," said Hugh. "Knees too, but that’s probably due to the strain of excess weight, pot gut and all that."
"I'll write down the name of a good ointment you can use at night. It won't make your stomach shrink. Gives a bit of arthritic relief. Get it from the chemist or a super-market. Might help the knees too. Just be careful where you put your hands when you have a pee in the middle of the night. Its liniment based, it’ll make your eyes water."
Both burst out laughing.
"Who ya laughing at you old pricks."
They both looked in the direction of the voice. A tall, punk-dressed teenager stared at them; chin jutting out aggressively, stood immediately to their front. His pink-died hair was set up from his head in an axe shape. Three nose rings pierced his fine long nose. One each side and one through the middle. Several more pierced each ear and one through his bottom lip.
The punk was accompanied by six youthful companions. However they all had their hair styled in the typically Middle Eastern cut for youths of that age with their heads shaved very close at the sides but longer on top. A couple had young teenage growth small black moustaches under large noses. While trying to all look different from everyone else, they had only managed to look the same among themselves.
Hugh and Bert looked at each other and grinned.
"Sorry?" said Hugh, "were you talking to us?"
"Yeah," picked up a sneering middle-easterner in his early 20's, "you and the weasel-face prick. What are you laughing at?"
The rest of the group moved threateningly closer.
"Useless old bastards," picked up another, "just piss off out of our streets and die somewhere. These are our seats."
"What's the trouble boys?" asked Bert.
"You, you big nose Dork. I'd like to take my knife out and cut that up," said another.
The youthful group and the punk laughed.
"You know, you old bastards just use up good air. Wasted on youse. Your sort should never have been born."
"Maybe they weren't, maybe they're just a couple of walking miscarriages,” said another. The group laughed again.
"You old buggers boring these young gentlemen with your war stories again are you?"
Jack pushed his way through the threatening group, despite being smaller than any of the 'trouble seekers'.
"Sorry fellas," Jack went on. "They get carried away when anyone wants to listen about how they won their war medals."
Jack sat down between the two of them. "Maybe you saw Hugh's photo in the paper the other day as the oldest surviving V.C. at the last Memorial Parade."
"What's a bloody V.C.?" asked one Arab youth.
"Victoria Cross," Jack yelled at him. "Don't you silly buggers know any of your history?"
"I've heard of it," said the pink-haired punk trying to exclude himself as ignorant like the fellow members of the group.
"What's it for then?" asked a moustached youth.
"Officially the words inscribed on it are 'For Valour'. It's for the highest bravery of a serviceman, above and beyond the call of duty in saving the lives of his fellow soldiers, and on the recommendation of witnesses to the action. In all of history of all the wars since 1856, only about 1200 have been awarded."
The group fell silent as they looked at the three old men.
"About one third are awarded posthumously. Do you know what that means?"
"Yeah," answered the punk. "After you're dead."
"That's right. The last posthumous one was awarded in the Falklands' War of 1982. Colonel Jones died attacking the Argies on Goose Green. It was the only one awarded in that war. Then there have been a couple awarded recently to brave soldiers carrying wounded friends off the battlefield while being shot at by Arabs in Afghanistan."
The members of the young group looked at each other.
"That’s the same as the medal Hugh here got," said Jack pointing towards Hugh.
“Nearly cost him his life fighting for his country and the people back home. As for Bert here, he got a D.F.C. flying Spitfires, shooting down German planes in the Battle of Britain."
"What's a D.F.C.?" asked another.
"You boys should really spend your time reading a bit instead of blocking up the streets and causing us old guys’ trouble. It's a Distinguished Flying Cross. My little Spitfire jockey here was a real ace. Shot down 26 of the dreaded Hun. Kept going back up he did. Got himself shot down three times. He managed to parachute out safely each time. Hated parachuting though didn't you?" he looked to Bert.
Bert just nodded.
"What'd you do?" asked the pink-haired punk.
"Nothing much. These guys got lead medals. I just got lead from the Middle East desert campaign. You Arabs will know where the Middle East is." Jack rolled up his sleeve showing three small round white scars on the under side of his forearm. “Three holes here, two in the shoulder. That made me shit scared. I turned to run and got one in the arse. That really got me riled. But I won't show ya that, unless you want to kiss it better."
Jack looked directly into the eyes of each of the group. "Those were the marks of my medals. I carry them with me, unseen, all the time."
Then Jack looked directly into the light brown eyes of the pink haired punk. "But I guess none of my body piercing was as brave as all of yours. I didn't want mine, I hated pain, and was scared shitless never knowing whether the next hole made in my body was going to give me one second to live, or a proper lifetime like I hoped God had planned when I was born.”
“Shit, these holes hurt at the time. Even now they hurt in the cold weather. But that makes me think about all my good mates that died for all the good things, and all the good people we used to have in this country. Now I realise they wasted their lives. It was just a bloody great waste trying to protect this country. We woulda been better off under the Germans or the Japs.”
Jack put as much venom into his stare at the young punk as he could manage. “They used to shoot troublemakers."
The pink haired punk went visibly red-faced.
"C'mon
," the punk said to the others. "Let’s go."
"Nothing personal Mister," said one of the young Arabs.
"See ya round," said another.
Grunts issued from several others as they departed. They were still within earshot when the three old fellows heard one of the group comment, "Shit man, did you see those bullet wounds."
The other replied, "26 bloody German planes."
"Wonder what he did for that V.C. though?"
The three old fellows sat silently soaking up the sun for several more minutes.
"I'm getting hungry," said Hugh.
"Me too," replied Jack.
"Don't worry. We've still got plenty of time to make it for lunch,” said Hugh.
"Thank God for the pensioner discount; I get an extra beer. Better still, I get a decent meal with no dishes to do," said Bert.
Getting up slowly, they began the 100 metre trek to club.
"Jack, you never did explain to us how you got those scars on your arm. You didn’t get them in some heroic action did you?” asked Bert, a wide grin on his face.
"Heroic? Hell no! A bloody outbreak of boils. Went through the camp like dysentery they did. Big buggers they were. Left nasty holes. Some guys dug ‘em out with bayonets."
"At least you described Bert accurately, Jack'" said Hugh."
"D.F.C.?"
The three in chorus said "Dumb Friggin' Catholic."
"Me flying a spitfire? You know I get a nose bleed and airsick going up an elevator," said Bert. "How dare you identify me as a crasher. I’ve always been able to out-drink you two.
"As for you Hugh. In your trusted position, I’ll never know how you got delayed and stranded behind enemy lines, with a truckload of nurses. Awarding you a medal for just driving a truck out, even under artillery fire? You got lost in the first place.”
All three were laughing as they passed through the swinging entry doors of the Returned Services Club, and waved to the on-duty receptionist before passing through to the dining lounge and gaming room. The receptionist cast her eyes up to the three framed and enlarged old sepia tainted photos of Bill, Hugh and Jack in uniform. The three men, then in their early twenties, were proudly displaying their white ministerial collars and crosses on their lapels to denote their padre status in the services.
Above the photos, the large highly polished bronze plaque read; “To our three local army padre heroes, all multiple recipients of Commendations for Outstanding Bravery in different theatres of W.W.2, for saving lives and souls serving both God and their country.”